


Dream A Little Dream of Me

by au_sein_et_sans



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, kind of an au but not really, steve is so paranoid lol, you'll see just read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/au_sein_et_sans/pseuds/au_sein_et_sans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened if Steve Rogers had hit his "growth spurt" a little earlier? How would his life have changed? What would he lose?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

 

January 3rd, 1948

Steve Rogers always woke up in a bed that was too small, to an apartment that was too stuffy, and to clothes that didn't fit. He woke up to a low ceiling and thinning rugs and dim lights and always the sound of cars honking on the street, four stories down. 

But it wasn't that Steve minded. Ever. He didn't notice the bed when he slept, and he didn't spend that much time in his apartment when he didn't have to. He got used to the cars. Came to love them, actually. No, what Steve minded were the long nights, all alone, followed by long days, all alone. 

No, what Steve needed was not a new apartment, or new clothes, or a new guy to fuck every night... He needed a friend. Steve needed a  _best_ friend. 

Sure, he made friends at the diner, and Natasha was nice, but she and Clint had other things to do than babysit all 6 feet of him. And the last guy he met, Tony Something, was good in bed ( _okay_ in bed) but a little too self-involved to be anything other than just one night. But it wasn't like Steve had room to be choosy. No one,  _no one_ , wanted shit to do with a fairy from Brooklyn who hadn't fought for his country and wasn't even very interesting company. 

This was what Steve was thinking about as he walked down the stairwell towards the post box. It was well into the middle of the day so the stairwell was already beginning to smell faintly of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. The girls in Steve's building were dirt poor, they all were, but they sure knew how to pick perfume. It gave them the air of extravagance. 

Steve passed a young couple, maybe in their teens, pressing each other against a wall and making out ferociously. Although it looked awkward and uncomfortable, Steve couldn't help but wonder when he'd find someone to do that with. If he ever would.  _  
_

The thing was, because he was so big, Steve would have to do all the pushing. Steve didn't consider himself the pushing type. But the only person who pushed him,  _ever_ , was Natasha, but Steve didn't do that, either. Pushing his letter to his mother into the red, white, and blue P.O. box, Steve began to wonder what it was that he actually  _did_ do.

Suddenly, a shoulder met the middle of his arm and pushed him aside. He wasn't hurt, wasn't even bruised, but he grabbed his arm and turned, automatically, towards the direction the "attacker" was coming from. 

The antagonist was a short (well, shorter than _him_ ) kid with dark brown curls and a square face. A nice jaw, as well, and Steve would've thought something about his dark eyelashes too if the kid didn't bark out a quick, "watch where you're going!" before he turned on his heel and strut away. Steve just watched a little dumbfounded, and a little guiltily, as if what had happened was actually his fault. Steve decided on swallowing a shrug, and heading back upstairs.

The two kids had been joined by a few of their friends, and they had courteously detangled themselves from one another for the sake of conversation. Steve squeezed past them, a little wounded and embarrassed, and hoped they couldn't see the small blush that crawled across his cheeks. 

Yeah, for the most part, Steve was a gentle giant. He worked out, and he could fight (if he  _had_ to) but he preferred being mean with words as to throwing a punch. Steve doubted, with a dry chuckle, that he could get away with sending the kid a strongly worded letter. No, people like that were hard to avoid in Brooklyn. You stayed out of their ways and hopefully, they stayed out of yours. 

If only it was that easy.

 

 


	2. Chapter Dos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more things happen

January 5, 1948

"Don't snap your cap, Steve-o," Clint said, not even half reassuringly, as he polished the dull metal milkshake cup Natasha handed him, "the guy didn't mean to be rude. He was prob'ly in a hurry or something."

It had only been a couple of days and Steve was still marinating in his anger over the stranger. Yes, it had started as humiliation but, much like the cycle of grief, Steve had a cycle of social anxiety. Being humiliated in the moment, getting angry at everyone else, getting angry at himself, and then finally laughing it off. Needless to say, he was still in his angry phase. 

"Hi-de-ho, fellas!" Roger, the busboy, asked as he appeared from the back door of the diner at which Steve worked. He donned his normal apron, and grabbed a washcloth, taking a soaking cup from Natasha's sink as well. 

"Huh, well, aren't you just an eager beaver?" Natasha said, and turned, leaning against the sink. "Maybe you should take notes," she now directed towards Steve who sat idly by, sitting on the counter. 

"Nuh-uh, my shift doesn't start until ten," Steve protested, but he couldn't even manage a smile as Natasha rolled her eyes. He was silent for a moment, as he listened to Natasha and Clint and Roger converse quietly in the empty kitchen. The owner would be there soon, and they would flip the little sign in front so that people would know that they were open and soon customers would come flooding in, not just from Brooklyn, but from Manhattan too, and Steve would hop to his feet and wouldn't stop moving until about nine at night.

"Steve?" Natasha asked, and Steve's eyes refocused on the group who were now all staring at him. "Wake up, buddy, it's ten."

He could hear the door jingle open and he hopped down from his seat on the counter and grabbed his apron also. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Hey, Ace, when do these things expire?" Natasha called from Steve's tiny kitchen. Steve sat on his rickety couch with Clint as the tiniest television on the East Coast drained noiselessly in the corner. Natasha was no doubt rummaging through Steve's kitchen cabinets looking for a beer that wasn't growing mold. 

"That's above my pay grade, baby," Steve said, placing a cigarette between his lips, and lighting it. Smoking was a nasty habit, literally, and it made his apartment smell like the subways, but it was too late, his fingers were always itching for one. Natasha came out with three warm beers and handed them out before she waltzed over to the radio and flicked it on. 

_...from old Chicago way...he had a boogie style that-_

Natasha shut off the radio quicker than she had turned it on. "Sorry," she apologized to no one. 

Neither Steve nor Clint had gone to fight. Clint was near deaf and the enlisting captain had declared him unfit for send off. Steve was pardoned because he was an ex-convict and this specific captain would rather have not enough recruits than let a jailbird represent the country. 

In his mind, the crime wasn't even Steve's fault. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong crowd. After he was locked up for a few years he was set up with the diner, but he was still on parole by the time the war came around. 

Steve was patriotic, sure, and he was sharp as a tack. But dying for the country that kicked him when he was down seemed a little excessive. 

"Now I might just be a little buzzed," Clint began (and he  _was_ ), "but I think I just got a sweet idea."

Steve rolled his eyes, knowingly, but turned towards his friend.

"How about," Clint said, more than a little patronizingly, "we get out of this dump of a slum and go dancing!" Steve almost laughed out loud. 

"You mean in one of those dance halls?" Steve asked, and even looked towards Natasha to shoot her boyfriend down. But what he received was not so favorable. 

"Yeah!" Natasha replied, eagerly, and Steve could  _feel_ his jaw drop to the floor. "We could all get dressed up and,  _oh_ , Steve, you could find a sugar daddy!"

The pair had quite a good chuckle out of this, but Steve found absolutely nothing funny about the whole affair. 

"This better be a gas," Steve said, deciding impulsively to stand, and he swayed a bit before he found his center of balance. "Otherwise you two clowns can go without me." He took a step towards the doorway - aiming vaguely towards his bedroom (the beer _was_  expired and was closer to cyanide on an empty stomach) before Natasha caught his hand and pulled him back towards her. 

She danced him through the living room best she could - doing an enthusiastic Charleston into a swing move, and then into a waltz position while Steve just stood close to still - eyeing her doubtfully. 

Suddenly, she pulled his face down close to hers until he could feel her warm breath fan out across his cheek. 

"You never go out, Steve," she said, and to Steve's dismay there was actual worry in her voice. Natasha, the fun-loving, fiery-haired diva with a God Complex was tutting over him, and Steve hadn't had enough poison-laced beers to settle the guilt in his gut. "Just tonight. One night."

Steve pulled back, and weighed his options. 

a) Stay home. Get a good night's sleep for work tomorrow. Go to work, get paid, maybe take his friends out for a few  _real_ beers that night. b) Go out. Get smashed. Maybe get lucky. Be late for work the next day. Regret. c) Say nothing. Run away. Live somewhere in the southwest.

Steve sighed deeply. "I have nothing to wear," he said, resigned. B, it is.

Natasha's face brightened almost automatically. "Oh! I'm sure Clint will find you something! Ee - this is so fun!"

_Well_ , thought Steve's traitorous mind,  _not my first choice of adjective._

 

* * *

 

 

Even with all of his twenty-something years of cynicism, Steve had to admit the dance hall was something spectacular. It was roaring. Banners and flags hung from the ceiling. Girls in dresses and lipstick danced with boys in suits and uniforms, all jumping and jiving in the same, similar, carefree way. Steve felt the spirit of the crowd pulsating as soon as he walked in - he fed off of their excitement. 

The band in the front was playing lyric-less music, just jazz and swing as loud as they could, but Steve could hardly hear it over his own blood pumping in his ears. 

"You gonna buy me a drink, stud?" A tiny-boned blonde asked, off to Steve's left, and he was surprised he heard her. 

"Pardon?" He asked, and she repeated herself. "Oh...uh, yeah," Steve mumbled, and gave the girl a drink, hesitantly. It seemed he had forgotten the heteronormativity his lovely city supplied, in that the rest of the world wasn't like the queer bars he bounced in and out of every month. But it was fine, the girl sensed his disinterest, and slurping on her free drink, she shimmied away. 

Natasha and Clint began to edge towards the actual dance floor, and to Steve's dismay, Natasha grabbed his hand and began to drag him behind them as well. Steve was finally met with all of the sweaty, eager bodies and their complicated dance steps they practiced in their parent's living rooms. He saw their lingering hands and unabashed smiles, and there was a tiny bit of him that wanted to stay wrapped up in that moment forever. 

"Hey!" A voice, male, called from his left, and Steve saw Tony, beelining for him with a tipsy little redhead on his arm. She looked fragile, and absolutely wrecked, and from the way that Tony was dragging her around, Steve inferred the poor girl hardly even knew where she was. 

"Haven't seen you since last week," Steve said, keeping his voice low, as a habit. He tucked his hands into the pocket's of Clint's old dress pants (which were a size too small for  _Clint_ ) to keep them still.

"You mean when you were in my bed?" Tony almost hollered, laughing. Steve felt the sudden urge to shove him. Tony read Steve's stricken expression and gestured to his "date". "Don't worry, she's just a friend."

"Dottie Peaches!" The redhead exclaimed suddenly, as if she knew they were talking about her and decided to introduce herself. Only, that wasn't her name. 

"Charming," Steve remarked, and turned, in vain, away from Tony Stark and ditsy Dottie. 

"I've come to ask if you wanted another round," Tony asked, smooth as ever, but Steve could practically taste the two glasses of whisky on Tony's tongue. For a fleeting moment, Steve wondered if Tony would have even asked if he weren't drunk. 

"That's alright, buddy, you've got your hands full," Steve said, and "Dot" fell down almost on cue, dragging Tony halfway to the ground with her. Steve seized the moment and elbowed his way through the crowd, getting lost in the group of bodies. 

It felt good, in a self-indulgent way. It felt like drowning, the mixture of the stuffiness and the rhythmic sway of dancers. But it was peaceful - a moment of clarity in a complete land of chaos. Steve felt more sane than he had in weeks. 

That's what happens, I guess, when you're the most sober in the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok also they didn't have diners really back then????? wtf lol


	3. Chapter Trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whoa more things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh feel free to comment

January 14, 1948

It was a week and four days before Steve saw the guy from the street again. Since then he had been to the dance hall nearly five times - which was five times more than he had ever been prior. Ever been in  _years._ Steve was in no way a changed man but those things take time. And, although it may have been beginner's luck, Steve was becoming quite popular among the faithful veterans of swing dancing. He had even been given the loving nickname: "Bliveto Boy" which Natasha used against him as often as she could.

And Natasha was actually there with him the next time the guy showed up. Him, Natasha, with her hair all done in Victory Rolls, and Tony's friend, Bruce, (who had the hookup with cannabis, but Steve wouldn't let either of them smoke in the apartment. "What will the neighbors think?" was his reasoning). It was in the worst of an especially painful winter in New York and Steve had forgotten to pay the heating bill (again) so the three were all bundled up in blankets watching their breath in front of them when they heard doors slamming. 

"I heard it again!" Natasha said, as the door slammed again. This time, it was accompanied by a few voices that were too loud for twelve o'clock noon. Natasha wedged her foot under Steve's ass and tried to leverage him up off of the couch. "Tell whoever it is to shut up."

Steve, who had long since reached his "laugh it off" phase of the cycle, was still reluctant, but finally he reached his front door and pried it open. He found a cardboard box sitting in the hallway with a scrappy blonde kid calling down the stairs something vulgar. 

"Hey, kid, what're you doing slamming all these doors for?" Steve called out, and the boy jumped and turned around quickly, almost toppling down the stairs. 

"S-sorry, sir, just h-helping, sir," the kid replied, with the intention of a private but the mannerisms of a child. Without another word he grabbed the box from Steve's feet and hurried into the apartment right next door. Steve, his curiosity piqued, followed him to the doorway. 

"You moving in?" He asked, arms crossed, and the boy jumped again, dropping the box with a crash. The floor of the apartment was full of boxes and various things like folded shirts and a disassembled lamp. 

"N-not me, sir," Blondie said, scratching behind his ear. He looked too young to be moving in anyway - but maybe it was just the freckles that peppered his complexion that made him look so young. 

"'scuse me, dreamboat," a voice announced from behind Steve, and he turned to see a suave looking gentleman carrying an almost identical box. Steve hurried out of his way, and the man stepped in and dropped the box at his own feet before turning around to shake Steve's hand. "Ciao!" He said, enthusiastically. 

"He won't understand you, Manelli," came a teasing voice from the hallway, and the tallest of the three came into view. "Hi, I'm Gabe. Who're you?"

Steve raised his eyebrows. "Consider me a concerned citizen. You  _all_ moving in here?" Gabe ignored the question and pushed past him, setting his box on an empty desk. 

"That'd be Bucky, you're looking for," the man, Manelli, finally explained, "we're just helping him move in."

"Speaking of which," quipped the kid from where Steve had left him last, "he's probably stuck at the bottom of the stairs 'cuz he dropped a box on his foot."

"I got them, Junior," came an all too familiar voice, "the flattery is not necessary." The owner of the voice bypassed Steve without a glance and set his two boxes down like the rest of them, only to turn around and freeze. "Have we met?"

Steve grit his teeth. "Have we?"

"Bucky" narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. "I dont...,"

"I mean, I figure yelling at strangers on the street is a normal routine, so I wouldn't expect you to remember," Steve said, and it came out harsher than he meant it. 

With a longer glance, this Bucky character was even more dashing than he had been fleetingly. Steve's eyes were ones to play tricks on him, especially when he was in the mood, but the dim light of the apartment didn't even do him justice. Heavy-lidded eyes over a pouting mouth - but Steve's daydream was shattered once he opened those beautiful lips. 

"Is that it, then? Did you wander into my apartment to chastise me?" Bucky asked, his voice dripping with disdain. Steve forgot to be angry for a moment - getting a little lost in the way Bucky spoke, and Steve had any overwhelming urge to hear Bucky say his name. 

"No, I, uh, live in the apartment next door," he mumbled, discarding the dispute for a moment. Bucky softened as well, his mistrust was replaced with something short of confusion. 

"Huh," Bucky grunted, and Gabe found himself thoroughly uninterested in the full exchange and chose to turn away. The rest of Bucky's cohorts did the same. "You can leave, unless you're helping."

"I think I'll pass the buck on that one, thanks," Steve said, quietly, tripping on his way out the door. Natasha was standing in the hallway, blanket draped across her shoulders, the same confusion playing across her forehead. 

"What took you so long? Was there a scene?" She asked as Steve sleep-walked past her and back into his apartment. 

"No, nothing, just...," Steve couldn't put his finger on it, "I think I'll take you up on that smoke now."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've added so many canon characters to the story sorry for not adding them. if anyone wants me to change it thats fine just lemme know. also "bliveto" comes from the blivet paradox and the slang is meant to mean "indecipherable" or not understandable


	4. Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things and then stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see notes @ end for me talking a lot

February 5, 1948

It didn't take long for Steve to accept that Bucky was a truly horrendous neighbor to have. Coming home completely wasted at ungodly hours, to make an obscene amount of noise in bed ( _thin walls_ ) and then to never exchange customary greetings such as "good morning" or "nice weather we're having" when met in the hallway. He was rude and he didn't care about nearly anything else under the sun and, god, if Steve didn't know any better he would say he was infatuated. 

Steve was smart enough to know that love at first sight was a total myth. Lust at first sight, however, was entirely possible and almost twice as likely. Bucky was entrancing - America's favorite heartbreaker - no doubt had gone to war but had turned more men on the enemy lines than he killed. And his "devil may care" attitude topped off the entire ensemble. Steve found himself grotesquely attracted to someone who didn't even know his name. 

On the fifth of February Steve found himself in a bar with Clint, Bruce, and the newest addition to their little cult, a girl named Peggy who had the hots for Sam, another waiter they worked with at the diner. She was the best drinking buddy until the clock struck twelve and strong, resilient Peggy would burst into tears with Sam's name on her lips. Other than that, Steve thought Peggy was real okay, and Natasha was more than happy to finally have another girl friend, ever since Maria eloped with Steve's old friend Isadore. Since then, the atmosphere of Steve's life had seemed to settle and he was more than content to drift along. 

So, of course, Bucky walked through the door. 

He was with his usual motley crew - the few goons from the moving day, a few more additions, and Sam, from the diner. As if she had sensed his arrival, Peggy looked up from her third beer and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Steve could vaguely hear her asking how she looked but he had zeroed in on Bucky, and his attention was unshaking. 

Bucky wore a dark green Henley shirt with both buttons undone (which, Steve was ashamed to admit, did something for him) and his hair styled back on his head - sculpted from his fingers running through it repeatedly. There wasn't much room for the whole gang to sit, so, much to Steve's delight and dismay, they meandered to where the most seats were being taken up. 

"H-hi, Sam," Steve heard Peggy stutter, before he turned his bar stool the full way around to see Gabe eying him up and down. 

"You gonna move?" Gabe grunted at him, and Steve just raised his eyebrows. 

Something inane in his head mentioned,  _you could take him_ , almost as an afterthought, which didn't help. 

But Bucky put a hand on Gabe's chest. "Hey, ease up, buddy, let's let these fine gentlemen,  _and lady_ , enjoy their drinks in peace, eh?"

Gabe looked reluctant to do so, and looked at Bucky in confusion. "Well, in my book, these 'fine gentlemen' should let us have our turn, don't you think so?"

Bucky mocked deep thought. "You have a point, my friend. Hear that, Steve? It was a good point."

Steve ground his teeth together, a habit he had only recently developed. "Get lost."

"Excuse me?" Bucky feigned offense, "care to repeat that?"

"Get. Lost." Steve enunciated. The point was moot, really, but Bucky had asked for a fight, so he was giving him one. "Buzz off. Go away. Take a long walk in a bad part of town. Vamoos-,"

Steve wasn't sure who threw the first punch, but once he stood up the fight broke out. He felt the warm trickle of blood down the side of his face, and threw Bucky against the wall opposite him in response. The kid was light enough, and he hit the wall with a thud, but stamina was another one of his good traits. Most of Bucky's friends were restraining Gabe but Peggy was letting Manelli have it. Junior latched on to Bucky, who tried to shake him off with no luck. 

"Hey! Hey! Get out of my bar!" The bartender hollered from his helpless stance behind the counter. He hit Steve on the back with a towel which distracted him long enough for Bucky to shove him back against the bar, and grab him by the front of his shirt. 

"How about you apologize to me and my buddies before I give you another one," Bucky tapped his knuckles against Steve's lips, "right in the kisser, huh?"

"Out! Out - now!" The bartender shoved at the two of them before the familiar jingle of the door escorted them into the brisk winter air. Bucky's hands were dislodged from Steve's shirt and the two groups regathered across from each other. Bucky wiped some blood that was collecting on his cupid's bow. 

"Let me at 'em, let me at 'em!" Gabe was crying, but Bucky drew him back now, with one hand. He wasn't the leader, by any shot, but he seemed to have a calming effect on everyone. Everyone except Steve, that was. "Come on, Buck, I'm so close!"

"We know, Gabe, on any other day, you would really have let him have it," Bucky said, as irritable but exhausted Gabe slumped on his shoulder. 

"Abso-fucking-lutely," Gabe mumbled, lazily, and the group of thugs limped away. Steve almost laughed as Junior shot him the bird, but a sudden pain in his ribs made him wince. He sucked in quickly, and Peggy put a hand on his diaphragm but he pulled away. 

"I'm fine, I just need to sleep it off," he assured her, although she seemed wary. Steve was more afraid of Natasha kicking all of their asses for even thinking of getting involved in such a hopeless situation. Steve declared that a fight for another day, and limped home. 

 

* * *

 

In the doorway of his apartment, Steve fumbled with his keys. His brain was woozy and the keys slipped from his fingers and onto the floor where they skittered away from him. He stumbled back and knelt down, feeling the ground for them with only half attention. 

He found them, the shiny little bastards, lying behind two dark brown combat boots. Steve scooped them up and struggled to crane his neck up to see who the owner of the boots was, and he was none too excited with his answer. Pulling himself up to standing, Steve winced inwardly, but tried to remain as stone-faced as Bucky, who stood before him. 

The two of them stood toe to toe in the hallway for a moment, and Steve let Bucky stare incomprehensibly into his eyes before Bucky's jaw tightened and he turned away, hand gripping his doorknob. Steve fell into his own room and onto his couch - unsure exactly of what just happened. 

That night, in the shower, Steve came so hard he almost cried. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know what my posting schedule is gonna be like but for now its whenever i have time i guess...which is a lot.... um also please feel free to leave any comments or anything and like if you want to swap emails or something lmaO im so lame sorry


	5. Chapter пять

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its a surprise

February 7th, 1948

Steve's mother lived in the Direct Medical Assistance for Elderly Citizens Home (or the DMAEC) in Manhattan, and Steve was obligated to visit her once a month for Family Visit Day. His cousin, Joyce, who's father was there as well, was Steve's only source of sanity on these days. Every month he'd show up with a bouquet of flowers his mother would detest, underwhelming news on the job front and, as a special treat this month, a shiner hovering just next to his left temple. 

His mother's first reaction was, "so, you broke parole, then?" before Steve even got the chance to set down the flowers. They were daisies, and Steve had spent fifteen minutes picking them out. They wouldn't be watered, and would die within the week. 

"Uch, give him some credit, Aunt Sarah," Joyce broke in, busy rummaging around in the Steve's mother's half empty cabinets for the vase they used every time. "I mean, you didn't, though, right?"

Steve rolled his eyes, although it was a fair question. Ending up in jail was a bit unexpected for the whole crew, and he was sure it affected his mother more than she liked to let on. This was judging by the amount of times she would bring it up. "No, I did not break parole. Fell down...some stairs." He couldn't bring himself to mention Bucky's name. 

"Some broad probably gave him whiplash and he tripped," Steve's mother mumbled to Joyce, and her niece laughed - but sent a knowing look in Steve's direction. 

In Steve's mind, his mother didn't have much time left. And not in a weird way, because Sarah had accepted that she had taken her turn on the round-a-bout, and knew that she was just waiting out the clock. Joseph, her late husband, was waiting for her, and she grew impatient with the constant discomfort that comes from DMAEC hospitality. So Steve figured he might as well spare her the gorey details of his love life. 

"What's been cooking, Momma, hm?" Steve asked, folding a ratty old blanket over the arm of his mother's couch. 

"Don't talk to me that way," Sarah said, slapping her sons hand away, playfully, "I'm not some kitten you can hoot at on the street with the rest of your soldier buddies."

Steve made a face. 

"Oh, right," Sarah continued, "you don't have any soldier buddies."

Joyce bit down on her lip to keep from smiling. "Still have that fighter spirit, huh, Sarah?" 

"You know it, doll," Sarah laughed, with a wink. She turned back to her son, and reached up a wrinkly hand to pinch his cheek, briefly. "Oh, come now, Steven, you know I'm just teasing," she sighed, faking earnesty, "just trying to get my kicks in...before they send me to the hotspot."

"Hotspot?" Steve asked, wrinkling his nose. "I think we'd go for something more subtle."

Sarah rolled her eyes, and her sentimentality faded away. "Get out of my apartment, you greaseball."

Steve stood up and followed Joyce out, calling over his shoulder, "I was thinking we just might go around back and shoot you!"

The door closed behind him and his cousin, and they were alone in the hallway. 

"Does it hurt badly?" Joyce asked, quietly. Steve almost made a joke about "does what hurt" but there was something vulnerable in Joyce's expression that reminded him too much of Natasha's a month earlier. Steve found himself too tired of people handling him like glass. 

"No," Steve assured her, and Joyce's shoulders relaxed a bit. "Only when I breathe."

Joyce looked at him doubtfully, but edged out a smile and punched him lightly on the arm. She continued down the hallway towards the stairwell, and Steve followed her, slipping his hands into his pockets. He was about to ask her if she was doing anything that day, but Joyce wasn't ready to let the topic drop. 

"So, should I take your word for the whole 'falling down the stairs' thing?" 

Steve chuckled, "depends on whether or not you believe it."

Joyce shot him a crooked smile. "No, it's just that... Joannie said the same thing, and it turned out her fiancee was beatin' her and-,"

"Oh, no, he's not my fiancee," Steve blurted, as a reflex, and instantly regretted it.

Joyce stopped, eyebrows raised. "So someone did hit you?"

Steve tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it missed by a mile. "It was... Nothing, I just... He, uh-,"

Joyce looked skeptical. 

"Look - I can fight my own battles, okay?" Steve asked, shocked by his own irritation. It sounded shady, and he shoved his hands further into his pockets and avoided her stare. He kept walking, and brushed past her. 

She fell into step with him, a moment later, but stayed silent. "Joannie said that-,"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Fuck Joannie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey no one's commenting or reaching out - but thats fine its only been like two days. i just made a tumblr and its wowoknothanks.tumblr.com so pls follow or message me there! luv u


	6. Chapter ٦

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uuughghghhh

February 8th, 1948

"Have you read  _The Naked and the Dead_?" Natasha asked, casually, over a Sunday beer in Steve's apartment. 

Steve missed the nail by an inch, his hammer tapping the crumbling doorjamb dangerously. "Is it a war book?"

Natasha was silent. 

"Then no, I did not."

Steve heard Natasha sigh and roll over on his couch, but he didn't look away from his DIY handyman work. The top of his doorway had nearly broken off the last time Bucky slammed his front door, and Steve was determined to fix it by himself. He stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth in concentration as he tried it again. 

"What do you have against the war?" Natasha asked, and Steve sighed now, his focus broken. 

"Nothing," he lied, looking down from his perch on the ladder he had borrowed from his landlord in order to reach the top of the door. 

"Don't give me that shit, Steve, I wasn't born yesterday," Natasha said, lazily, and Steve hung his head, one hand still propping him up on his wall. 

There were a lot of things he had "against" the war, but none of them that he especially liked to talk about with anyone ever. Steve didn't like the amount of kids that died for their country, just to become a statistic. Steve didn't like the war songs and the war movies and the war books that made little boys want to play with fake guns on playgrounds. He didn't like the idea that dying a martyr was like earning a golden ticket to heaven and everyone else - all the gimps and the felons, like himself, were all doomed to damnation.

Steve didn't like the idea of wives and mothers working in the factories to send out big, flying, death traps for their own neighbors to plunge to their deaths in. Steve didn't like the war - not because of the fighting and the violence - but because when people came home from it, like Bucky and Sam and Gabe, they were the only ones who'd remember it in a few years time. And not remember it like remember the dates and times and songs on the radio - but remember the sounds and smells and the feeling of your heart caught in your throat every time you pulled the trigger on someone's son. 

So, yes, Steve _did_ have something against the war, but, no, nothing he liked to talk about with anyone ever. 

"Well?" Natasha pressed, but Steve ignored her and got back into position. He pinched his fingers around the nail in the wall and swung the hammer towards it,  _once_ ,  _twice..._

"Steve?" Natasha asked again. 

_Once...twice..._

Steve heard Natasha get up from where she was sitting, "sorry, for asking."

He started again.  _Once... Twice..._

"Steve, don't just pretend I'm not right here!"

The hammer surged forward harder than Steve intended, and he loosened his grip in surprise - the nail slipping from his fingers and landing with a  _clink_ on the ground. The hammer caught his pointer finger instead - right above the knuckle.  _  
_

"Agh!" Steve cried out, pain blossoming from his hand through his arm, and he drew back his hand, towards his chest - dropping the hammer with a thud onto the couch. Natasha dodged it and rushed towards him - but it was too late, Steve took a step back off of the ladder.

His back hit the ground first, and the air rushed from his lungs as it was knocked out of him. His consciousness and nervous system roared back to life once he gasped for air but the ringing in his ears was too strong to hear Natasha mouthing something, enthusiastically at him. Steve felt nauseous - dizzy, even, and his vision blurred as if he had just gotten off of a roller coaster - or as if he had just gotten up too quickly.

 _Fuck - am I paralyzed?_ was his first thought, and he tried desperately to move his right foot, which was still tangled up in the lower steps of the ladder. Pain shot through his side in response, and he groaned (although he couldn't tell how loud).  _Definitely not paralyzed_.

"Steve! Steve!" He could now make out three Natashas calling out his name repeatedly, and he could make out her blurry outline(s). The three Natashas called his name one more time before they darted away, out of view. 

After a moment, she was back, but she had brought someone with her. Steve felt his head being propped up and a soft cushion set underneath it. He felt his eyelids flutter as he tried to make out the person crouching over him. He heard some vague mumbling from the stranger to Natasha and then heard her harried footsteps as she flew around the house. She got a little too close to his head, and the vibrations on the wood made him wince. The stranger pivoted his face towards them. 

"Hey, Wonder Boy, look at me," said the voice, "just keep looking at me." Natasha came back, tiptoe-ing, and she handed him a tiny flashlight that she found in Steve's bedside table. The stranger lifted both of Steve's eyelids one at a time, shining the harsh light into both of them. 

"Reaction to light," said the man (as Steve could now tell), "that's a good sign." 

Steve heard Natasha curse at him, and the stranger shifted the pillow under Steve's head. "We've got to get him somewhere...less...here."

"Uh, his bed," Natasha supplied, "in the other room."

Natasha grabbed his legs, and The Stranger cupped underneath Steve's arms and the two of them hoisted him onto his rickety twin bed. Steve wondered, completely offhand, if he had managed to clean up before this impromptu meeting. 

"Painkillers? Nothing? Cough medicine. Hard liquor. Literally, anything you can find," The Stranger was telling Natasha, and Steve watched him calling to her from the doorway of Steve's bedroom. He was tall, wide-shoulders, long-sleeved white t-shirt rolled to his elbows. His hair was cropped close to his head on the sides and back but the top was growing in organized, combed curls. He turned around and Steve's eyesight evened out long enough to see blue eyes over sloping lips. 

"B...?" Was all Steve managed to get out before Bucky returned to his side, with a wet washcloth. Bucky set to work dabbing the blood off of the contusion on Steve's head. Steve could feel his fingers working through his hair - and even though the situation wasn't ideal, Steve allowed his eyes to slip shut and he savored the feeling. 

He only opened them again when he heard Bucky chuckle. "Did I do this?" He asked, running his thumb over Steve's left temple. Steve just looked at him. 

Bucky glanced at the expression on Steve's face and his hand fell to his side again, and he busied himself grabbing a beer and some gauze from Natasha. Bucky took a swig of the beer and handed it back to her, ignoring the glare she shot him. 

"Steve?" Natasha asked, timidly, laying a smaller, daintier hand on his forehead and brushing the fringe from his face. "Can, uh, can you hear me?"

"Who's Steve?" He asked, and Natasha's mouth dropped open a fraction of an inch. Steve couldn't help the smile erupting onto his face. "Sorry, Nat, just fucking with you."

"Ugh!" Natasha cried, and went to punch him on the arm, but settled for just leaving her hand there. She turned back to Bucky. "I guess he's back to his usual wise-ass self."

Bucky didn't laugh. "Good to hear it."

"You sure you can't hit him again?" Natasha asked, trying again. "Maybe he's due for a little attitude adjustment."

Steve peered under his eyelashes to see the forced smile on Bucky's face as he backed out of the room. "He's fine," was all he said before he disappeared. Natasha turned around - confusion playing across her features before she caught sight of the more important topic at hand. 

"If you didn't want to talk, you should've just told me," she teased Steve, before throwing an arm around his neck and pulling him into a loose hug. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its me again still sorry - hope ur liking the story! tell me if its awful actually tho


	7. Chapter Sieben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :)

February 14, 1948

Steve had cabin fever. Worse, actually, he had cabin influenza. He took a paid vacation from work on disability, which was rare, but Steve didn't have anywhere to go. Not during a work week, when all of his friends were gone, and his head hurt like hell whenever he sat up too fast. Steve had spent the week circulating from his bed to his couch, and that was only when Natasha or Clint would bring him food from the diner (because he ate through the contents of his fridge in two days). Needless to say - Steve was itching to get outside and see how much had changed. 

"I hardly recognize this place," Steve said to Peggy, gesturing to the street outside his apartment (which he knew by heart). The whole gang had assembled to go celebrate Steve's recuperation in the dance hall. Much to Steve's "chagrin" Natasha had invited Bucky and Bucky's friends, because technically he was the reason why Steve hadn't bled out on the floor of his apartment. Or something. 

"Ah, come on, Stevie," Clint said, throwing an arm around his friend's shoulder, "so you fell and bumped your head. Doesn't sound so bad."

"No?" Steve asked, playfully, "then you do it."

The group laughed, jovially, and Steve hated himself for glancing off to his right to see if Bucky was paying any attention to him at all. Steve hated himself even more when he saw that Bucky wasn't. There was a self-destructive quality in the way Steve acted around people. He had a desperate need to be liked, before he would even remotely open up to them at all. Maybe he was just jaded and hardened, but mostly he was scared.

Steve didn't think there was much about him to be liked.

"Last night," Sam was saying, and Steve tuned in to the conversation, "there was this call-girl outside of a drug store, right? And she was yelling at this creep, this bald, chrome-dome, creep, about how he owed her some money, for...y'know,  _services_ ," the group had a laugh at this. "Now, this broad seemed pretty cheap, right? I mean,  _pennies from heaven_ cheap... But this guy couldn't pay up! I was thinking of stopping and lending him a fiver, just cuz I took pity on that poor sonofabitch..."

The group laughed, although Peggy rolled her eyes, teasingly. Sam saw his girlfriend's expression and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. She shoved him off and faked pretending to be mad, but Steve saw her face when she looked at him. It was full of... Steve couldn't quite put his finger on it. 

Steve wasn't the best with words. He could paint, and he could run, but he couldn't put feelings to words, and apparently he couldn't fix doorjambs, either. He had his mixture of strengths and weaknesses. But if there was one thing he knew, Steve wanted (no,  _needed_ ) someone to look at him like Peggy looked at Sam. 

Needed someone to look at him like he was their whole fucking world. 

This conclusion knocked the air out of Steve, and he fell towards the back of the group, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. They had reached the dance hall and the group had started filtering in. Steve waited, even turned back around towards the street, and just took a deep breath of air. He was joking about his city having changed, but at the same time, it had a little. Nothing in New York ever stayed the same for long. Everything had it's expiration date. 

"You coming, bruiser?" That voice asked, and Steve turned around again, almost instantly. 

Bucky stood in the doorway - light flooding out from the dance hall and onto half of his face. He looked so far, so unattainable, all of it did, that Steve forgot he had the obligation to answer. Bucky waited, expectantly, and Steve's heart pounded against his ribcage. How could he compare to a moment so beautiful? So...unreal? So  _romantic_? It was almost as if Steve was only there to watch - not to intervene. 

"Alright," Bucky said, and it was like a rock sinking to the bottom of Steve's stomach, "suit yourself, then."

Bucky let the door swing closed behind him, and Steve just watched. Watched him walk away into the bustling crowd. He lost sight of him behind a woman in a floral print dress, and Steve wondered if she ever felt as miserable. 

But why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't he just walk away? Steve hardly knew him. It was nice of him to turn around at all. 

Steve made the walk back to his apartment alone, and he tried not to think. Thinking would only make it worse. Natasha was going to kill him. 

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm going to  _kill_ you!" 

Steve didn't even look up from where he was lying on the couch, his right arm thrown over his eyes. Natasha stormed angrily over to him and, picking up one of his throw pillows, slammed it down hard on his stomach. He doubled over with an  _oof_ and opened his eyes, a little reluctantly. 

"You can't just leave your own damn party!" Natasha said, and hit him again on the shoulder. "What, did you think we'd just go on without you?"

Steve laughed, but it sounded more like he was just blowing air of his lungs. "I was hoping." He got up and brushed past her. Clint stood awkwardly in the doorway, and Tony and Bruce were outside in the hallway talking animatedly. "Oh great, the gang's all here." Steve picked up a cigarette and put it to his lips. 

"Was it Bucky?" Natasha asked as Steve searched for his lighter on the table. Steve felt a pang of guilt as he realized what he had done. He was a selfish, awful person, and it wasn't even like anyone did anything to set him off. 

"I need some sleep," he said, finding his lighter under a couch cushion. He went to light it but Natasha snatched it from his mouth, and threw it onto the ground. Steve just looked at her. 

"You've  _had_ sleep. For the past week." She was exasperated. "Weren't you the one that was telling me-," Steve brushed past her (again) and headed towards his bedroom, "-that you  _desperately_ needed to get out of the house and do something?"

Steve's fingernails dug into his palm, but Natasha followed him into the bedroom. 

"And I asked you, over and over again, if you felt up for it, and you said 'yes, Nat,  _yes_ , I'm totally fine' and so I called all of our friends -  _your_ friends - and I invited them to all come out and we picked a date and a time and a place and I asked you last night, I said, 'Steve, are you sure you want to do this?' and you said-," Natasha paced around his room while she spoke, "-you said, 'yes, Nat, 'm sure' so I said ' _great_ ' and we all came together, and I got Clint to dress up, and I got Peggy and Sam to get out of bed and get dressed, and I got  _Bucky_ to come. I got  _James_ to come, and I got you to come and it was great, and you were great, but then no! You decided to go AWOL and I was in the middle of the bar, and I asked everyone where you were and no one knew! No one knew, Steve! How come no one knew where _you_ were at your _own_ party, Steve? How come that happened? Oh, that's right, because you left and  _didn't tell anyone_." _  
_

Steve was fucking reeling. 

"Just know that I'm never doing this shit again, Steve," Natasha continued, having taken a dramatic pause to stare at him. "You will have woken up from a coma, or gotten hit by a car, or you will have been dead and then came back to fucking life, and I will hand you the phone and a list of your closest relatives and tell  _you_ to invite them yourself. You, in your post-coma state, can call everyone you know and _you_ can get them to show up. Maybe  _then_ you'll get through the door!"

There was silence when she was finished.

Natasha took a deep breath. "I'm not going to apologize."

"I didn't ask you to," Steve's own voice sounded foreign.

"Good," she said, but she still seemed hesitant. "Just..."

Steve waited.

Natasha's shoulders relaxed from where she had stood alert and angry. Steve saw now how tired she was. He couldn't help but wonder if he looked like that, too. "Just _why_ , Steve? Why? I'm just really having a hard time figuring out why the fuck you did that."

Steve's mouth parted. "It wasn't...you."

Natasha just looked at him. Looked at him for a long time. She opened her mouth, but then closed it again. He could see her mind working.

"Okay." Was what she finally said.

Steve raised his eyebrows.

"Okay," she repeated, as if she didn't believe it, yet. "That's fine. I'll see you on Monday."

Steve was losing touch, he could feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i,m probably just going to keep writinf this


	8. Chapter Nane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> y'know i dont plan these things out beforehand i just kinda wing it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is chapter eight by the way it just looks like nine

February 18, 1948

Steve knew that the whole "not talking about it" thing wasn't going to last. He enjoyed the time while it did (a total of three days) but he could feel the looming eyes of the elephant in the room every time he caught Natasha glancing at him. By Wednesday, Steve was about to jump on the grenade just to get it over with, when finally the conversation came up naturally (or as naturally as it could). The only confusing thing was the catalyst itself.  

Steve came to work on Monday expecting to be fired, or demoted, or yelled at in front of a full restaurant of people. And also, when the topic did finally come up, none of those things happened then, either. It was this whole unspoken rule to suddenly treat Steve like a deer or something - keep your voice down and your mannerisms harmless so that you don't spook him. Steve didn't like it, and he was sure deer probably didn't either.

Honestly, he thought that Clint would be the one to bring it up. He'd mention something like, "hey, so what happened last Saturday?" or "do you guys remember when you got in that really big fight last week?" But Clint kept his mouth shut. Steve's second guess was that Natasha's hair would start to fall out from stress and she'd let him have it while they were the only two left in the restaurant. Steve's third guess was that he would begin to go (more) insane and he'd have to blurt it out in the middle of a conversation just to assure himself that night had actually happened.

But, no, incidentally the conversation about the 14th of February, 1948 was brought up when Bucky Barnes walked through the door of  _Frank's Diner_.

Steve knew his regulars, and he knew Natasha's regulars, and he knew how to spot someone who was coming for the first time, and Bucky was definitely one of those people. He sat down at the booth, drumming his fingers on the table, craning his neck as he surveyed the restaurant, and ordered a milkshake. Steve didn't not quicken his pace to ensure that he would be the one to deliver it. 

"Chocolate milkshake," he said, and Bucky's head snapped around. His eyes were cloudy as he struggled for clarity, but finally took the milkshake from Steve, just setting it down in front of himself. 

"I didn't know you worked here," Bucky said, quietly, and Steve tried not to be offended that he wasn't what Bucky had come for. But why would he be? "Um, do you know where, the, uh," Bucky cleared his throat, "Natasha, is?"

"The Natasha is in the kitchen," Steve said, swallowing down the tiniest burn of jealousy in his throat and replacing it with his best retail-worker smile. "I can get her, if you'd like."

Bucky just looked at him, as if he were weighing his options. "Yeah, that would be great." 

Steve turned away, and let his forced smile fall from his face. He could feel the heat on his face ever since Bucky had walked through the door, and it was just increasing with every step he took, imagining that Bucky was watching him walk away. But he wasn't, most likely, because Bucky nearly never broke his cool. Until right then, when he was talking about...  _God_ , when he was talking about Natasha. 

Steve knew that Bucky didn't like...people...like Natasha ( _thin walls_ ) so he was pretty content with the idea that he wasn't interested in Natasha in that way. But there was something going on with them that they weren't including him on, and Steve hated to be out of the loop. But, unfortunately, that's all he felt recently. Bucky was this huge loop of a whole other life that Steve would never be a part of. 

"You've got a customer," Steve said, once he found her scrubbing a pan in the sink, "asked for you by name." 

Natasha shot him a face, but brushed past him. For once, he indulged his curiosity and followed her back out of the kitchen and behind the counter. He busied himself with pretending to make another pitcher of coffee, and if either of them noticed, they were polite enough to not say anything.

"My buddies wanted me to...," Bucky was saying, but his voice seemed to drop lower and lower every second, so Steve stepped back to hear better, "...so, thank you. For that."

Natasha laughed, "anytime. If you liked that - you should see us when we actually all get inside."

There was a silence. 

"Steve, you're not heating the coffee," Natasha said, and Steve could feel his cheeks redden. 

"Huh? Oh, uh," Steve scratched his neck, "I was just-,"

Natasha was beckoning him over with her hand. Steve faked reluctance as he walked towards the two of them. Bucky looked impartial and altogether undisturbed, but Natasha had a heavy sort of stare that never broke from Steve as he came over. 

"We were thinking of going out again this week," Natasha said, carefully, "or, rather, for the first time."

Steve nodded. "Nice. Am I invited?"

Natasha raised her eyebrows. 

There was a silence that fell, and Steve hated it more than anything ever before. Things were not supposed to be "weird" and "silent" between him and his best friend. If he couldn't talk to Natasha, then he couldn't talk to anyone. 

Then Bucky laughed. It was a surprising sound for both Steve and Natasha, and they both looked over at him, the moment lost. 

"What? Oh, sorry," Bucky said, smoothly, "but this is like the embodiment of 'lost in translation'."

Steve glanced at Natasha, whose eyebrows were furrowed. Steve thought that this was the most he'd ever heard Bucky speak at one time.

"Come  _on_ , you can't be serious," Bucky said, a lopsided grin rising to his face. "Fine, okay, if you need me to spell it out for you, I will. Natasha wants the best for you, Steve. Personally, I don't understand how one person can be so dedicated to another grown person's well being without being their mother, but she does. And you think that's suffocating, right? I've got no parents, no family, no one who's ever looked out for me before, and I would fucking kill to have someone worry about what happens to me when I leave a fucking bar night early. You're lucky as hell, and you take it for granted."

Natasha let out a little sound like  _hmph._ As unexpected as the situation was, what Bucky said was making a lot of sense. 

"And Natasha-," Bucky went on, and Steve hoped the guy knew self-defense, "-you need to let Steve make his own decisions sometimes. I understand that you think you know what's best for him, and that the last thing you want is for him to be fucked up or something, but fucking up is a natural part of life. The more you try and make him into something he isn't means the more he's gonna try and break away more. And if this relationship doesn't work out," Bucky slid his straw out from his milkshake and sucked the whipped cream off of it, "then I'm fucked. Thanks for the milkshake." Bucky pulled away from the counter and hopped off. In five steps he had cleared the floor and he was out of the restaurant. 

Steve turned to Natasha, and Natasha to Steve. 

"What he said."

Natasha's face broke out into a large grin. "What just happened?" She asked with widened eyes, and the two didn't stop laughing until their shifts were over. 

And from then on they were fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does anyone actually read these. hey fun fact: when it says that part "steve came to work expecting to be fired" i wanted to write "or worse: EXPELLED" but i realized harry potter hadnt really come out then


	9. Chapter Nio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh

February 22, 1948

The entire gang hadn't made it out the second time, but even so, Steve kept losing everyone in the pulsating crowd. The music was louder than Steve remembered it, and it was overpowering the amount of dance moves that everyone just seemed to know. It was like watching a perfectly rehearsed routine but with all of your close friends and neighbors. When he finally caught sight of her, Steve found that Natasha had some pretty impressive moves herself. 

"Hey, Bliveto!" A voice called from behind him, and Steve turned around to see Sal and his wife Karen, two regulars to the dance hall that Steve had gotten acquainted with before he had taken his hiatus. Sal enveloped Steve is a tight hug and if Steve hadn't already fractured all of his bones from the fall, he had from that hug. Sal steered him to a group of people dancing. 

Steve found the rhythm they were moving to and moved vaguely to it, a girl coming up every few minutes and trying to weasel a dance out of him. Finally, Steve took a break and, waving goodbye to Sal, took a seat on one of the few chairs scattered off to the side of the dance floor. 

Steve didn't realize Bucky was sitting beside him, before he spoke: "Bliveto Boy? Sounds like a cheap Superhero."

Steve snorted. "Bucky sounds like a cartoon character."

"Fair enough," Bucky laughed, and Steve didn't have to look at him to know what that would look like. Bucky's smile, his real smile, was rare, but memorable. "Y'know, it's just a little bit past our one month anniversary."

Steve's head practically snapped off of his neck, he turned around so fast. "What?"

"Sorry," Bucky said, smiling again, although this time it seemed less bright. "It was just a joke. I, uh, moved in about a month ago."

Steve's eyebrows raised as he tried to regulate his pulse again. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," Bucky said, and took a sip of his drink. 

 _Hey, you wanna get out of here?_   Steve wanted to say.  _Come home with me._ Steve needed to say.  _Fuck, I-_

"I need some air," Bucky said, standing up, and he walked towards the front door. "Feel free to...," Bucky just trailed off, and walked away. 

Steve stayed where he was. If that was an invitation to join him, then Steve guessed he was rejecting it. He was sure Bucky wouldn't appreciate being pinned against the dirty wall of a dance hall and getting tongue-kissed by a total stranger. Or a half stranger. Steve wished he had been cooler about the "anniversary" thing. 

But it was too late, because now he couldn't stop thinking about tongue-kissing Bucky. Grabbing a fistful of his hair and licking straight into his-

Steve needed air, too. And a cold shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really short sorry but its like 12 and my writing has never been this bad before i want to apologize


	10. Chapter Δέκα

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hha

March 1, 1948

"I feel like we haven't had a holiday since New Years," Steve said, absentmindedly, wiping down a counter with a wet washcloth. He, Natasha, Clint, and another girl named Shannon were still in the restaurant. Steve hadn't meant for it to be more than just a statement when he said, "isn't Valentine's Day supposed to be soon?"

Clint laughed. "Yeah, try last month."

Steve looked up from what he was doing. "What?"

"Valentine's Day is the 14th of February," Clint said, placing the cup Natasha had handed him back into the cabinet. Steve peered at him through the divider between the kitchen and the restaurant. "Which passed."

Steve's brow furrowed. "How could I have just missed it?"

Natasha chimed in, "You were still recuperating."

"No," Clint persisted, "he wasn't. We all went out together to dance, and I remember that because there were hearts hung up everywhere, and I remember  _that_ because some guy came up to Bucky with one of them and handed him a paper heart and said 'you stole  _my_ heart' and Bucky punched him in the face." Clint was evidently very pleased with his story because he continued to chuckle to himself all the way home. 

Steve's grip on the washcloth tightened, imagining Bucky punching someone for (admittedly, bad) flirting. Steve wished he had gotten a look at the guy who was  _not_  Bucky's type, and only for the millionth time Steve regretted not going into the dance hall that night. He wondered when that topic would fucking drop already. 

"Well, don't worry, St. Patrick's day is coming up soon," Natasha tried, in vain, to cover up the topic, but it was difficult with Clint re-enacting Bucky's fight scene with a broom. 

Steve wondered what would've happened if he had known it was Valentine's Day. No one had bothered to tell him, so obviously no one had him in mind to be theirs. This was not a fact Steve liked to face.

Steve, genuinely, liked to be liked. Not adored, or worshipped, or with any intense passion, but he liked to be wanted, to be needed. Everyone does, don't they? But although Clint was a pal, and Peggy and them were great, Natasha needed him to need  _her_ more than she needed him. Steve wondered if there was anyone who really relied on him to be able to, oh, I don't know, to go dancing with them. 

 _Bucky certainly doesn't_ , Steve thought with chagrin, _he's more than able to make a night, to live his life, without me._ Steve wished that he didn't think of Bucky so much. 

"Where are you going after this, buddy?" Clint asked, slinging an arm over Steve's shoulder. "Going to go celebrate Valentine's Day a month late?"

"Home," Steve contradicted, carefully removing Clint's arm from his body and unlacing his apron. 

Clint groaned, audibly. "All work and no play...,"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve said, tossing his apron towards his friend, "I'll see you tomorrow." Steve turned and left the restaurant, letting the crisp winter air blow his jacket back before he wrapped it tightly back around his body. 

This had been a brutal, endless, winter, and it wasn't even over yet. Winter was easily Steve's least favorite season - he liked the colors of spring in his city, and the long nights of summer, and even the smell and the feel of fall, but winter in the city was miserable. It almost never snowed, and when it did, it was gone in a day, melted to slush on the sidewalks. The only good thing about winter was Christmas, and that only happens once a year. Steve was tired of winter the moment October hit. 

Steve breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth, watching his breath appear in front of him, and then evaporating again into the air. Steve blew out in a steady stream of air, like blowing smoke, and realized he hadn't needed a cigarette in awhile. Ever since he had fallen and he was stuck in bed all day, he hadn't smoked, and now it seemed he didn't even need one. Steve wondered how long this new leaf would be turned. 

Stopping in front of his apartment building, Steve hesitated a moment before he went up the stairs. The front of the building, chipping and old, was no match to the actual interior. Grime coated the walls and the floors, and Steve advised all of his friends not to put their hands anywhere they wouldn't put their face. Which was nowhere in this building. Many times, Steve had considered moving away, to somewhere a little nicer. It would be a struggle to afford it, but it was an option. But there was something about this building that made Steve want to stay. It was solid. It was as close to home as he ever got. 

Opening his front door, Steve took the smell of his apartment in, mildew-y, but also like all of his friends and him. The place looked like the memories he'd made, and it felt like comfort, and Steve never planned on leaving that behind. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone commented! im gonna throw a party


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i haven't planned this chpater out im honestly just winging it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't written on this for awhile but im starting a new fic so i need 2 prove 2 myself i have some sort of idea of commitment

March 18, 1948

"... _in the next 106 years, as you have been until now...,"_ tinny applause filled Steve's apartment and his fingers ached to turn the radio off. He didn't move, however, his face buried in Natasha's lap as they listened to the President's Patrick's Day Address for nearly the fifteenth time. 

"Christ, Natasha, it's the day  _after_ St. Patricks Day," Sam was grumbling, as he ran his fingers down the books lining Steve's mildewed bookshelf on the wall. 

Glancing up from her knitting she responded, "it's not my fault this is the only thing that's on."

Steve would've interjected with something to do with war songs and how this is better, but his eyelids were so heavy and the blanket on Natasha's lap was so soft, his mouth closed as soon as it had opened. 

A knock came at the door, and Sam turned around, dropping a worn copy of The Trial back into the bookshelf.

"Clint?" Sam called, "the door's open."

Gabe, who Steve hadn't seen for nearly a month, hesitated in the doorway before taking a short step into the room. Steve lifted his head at this, and found Manelli behind him looking equally uncomfortable which was uncharacteristic for the both of them. 

The room was silent for a moment, and Truman's droning voice came to the forefront again.

"You seen Buck?" 

Steve glanced up at Natasha and then Sam who agreed that, no, none of them had seen Buck. Steve told them as much. 

"How long's he been missing?" Sam asked, and Steve couldn't help but let his forehead wrinkle. 

It had been so quiet recently. Steve was sure he had heard Bucky moving around at night, maybe coming home late and dropping his keys or something, but... Steve hadn't heard his voice or anything. In a small fit of panic Steve tried to recall his droll tone and found that he couldn't. 

"The last we's seen him is, uhhh," Junior piped up from behind Manelli, and Steve pulled himself upright to see the kid, "I saw's him last on Valentine's Day when he was pounded on in the alley."

"I saw him the 18th when we went to see the dancing girls on Broadway," the three of them were fully in Steve's house now, not that he minded. They were much softer now, the loss preoccupying their usual dry rapport. "Actually that might have been it. I might've saw him last."

"The 18th?" No." Steve found himself saying. It was a wonder that Steve was able to keep up with dates as well as he could, considering that just about every other aspect of his life was disorganized. "I saw him...,"

"We went out again at the end of February," Natasha recalled, "just you, me, Clint, and Bucky."

"You saw's him?" Junior piped up, which landed him a quick thump in the chest by Gabe to be quiet. 

"Not me," Natasha glanced over at Steve. 

All of the eyes in the room turned to Steve, and he could feel himself growing a little pink. "I wish I had something more to tell you guys... I think... I mean, he ducked out for a minute and-," Steve trailed off. 

 _And I didn't come with him_.

"I didn't see him again that night," was all that Steve could muster. It was the truth, technically, but why did it feel like a lie?

"Oh," Manelli was visibly disappointed. Steve couldn't help but feel wholly responsible. 

"Well, if you see him...," Gabe began to usher them out of the room, and Steve felt the sudden urge to fix things. 

"No! Um," Steve sprung up from his seat of the couch causing their heads to turn again, "tell us what we can do to help."

"I don't really see what we can do," Sam piped up from behind him, but his tone was more _'s_ _peak for yourself'._

"We'll cover more ground if we all look."

The boys looked sceptical and began to glance at one another, as if having a brief telepathic conference. 

"He nearly saved my life, we'll just call it even."

More glances. 

"I don't know if Bucky would...," Junior began, but Manelli shoved at him a bit roughly. 

"Yeah, sure, Steve, thanks," Manelli quipped and shot him a quick smile, although his voice was riddled with doubt. He pushed the rest of them out into the hallway and with a final wave disappeared himself. 

Triumphant but not satisfied, Steve went to close the door, and heard Junior's lingering voice in the stairwell, "... _Bucky's gonna kick your ass when he finds out you involved him_." _  
_

" _So what? If it means we find him."_ Gabe.

"Even _so,_ " Manelli, " _maybe we should tell the guy...so he knows...what....getting into._ "

And the voices disappeared.


	12. Chapter Twelve-o (i've run out of languages)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this bc someone told me to like a month ago this one's 4 you
> 
> you know who u are

March 20, 1948

It took Steve the rest of Thursday, and then all of Friday, and finally incessant pestering on Saturday morning to get Natasha and Clint to come out looking with him. Part of him (the grown-up part) feels a bit foolish wandering off for some stranger. Not to mention the stranger is another consenting adult who really can do what he pleases. 

But then the other part of Steve (the one that usually won out) had been twitching for some semblance of adventure for the past year or so, and this sufficed as good as any. So, as usual, that part of him won out. 

"I can't believe that part of you has one out  _again_ ," Natasha complained, although she continued to humor Steve by peering into alleys whenever they crossed them. "One day I'm going to tell you that you're cock-eyed and take a powder."

Steve hardly even heard her. He had the brilliant idea to check the dance hall; and even if Bucky wasn't there, some washed up drunk who's been camped at the bar since last Tuesday ought to have seen him. Steve's heart actually began to speed up at the thought of his own ingenuity and walked a little faster - racing his own thoughts to the front door of Smokey's famous dance hall. 

He pushed the doors open, Natasha and Clint on his heels but not nearly as enthusiastically as his eyes roamed the floor and anywhere else to no avail (which wasn't very difficult seeing as it was midday, and the only people there were the poor saps drinking themselves to death and the band playing soft blues as a warm up for the night). Steve was not discouraged by this, however, and sought out the rattiest of all the street rats on display, because if anyone would have seen Bucky it would be someone like that. 

Steve's heart dropped to his stomach before the creep even opened his mouth, as he saw the total lack of recognition in the poor guy's eyes. He tried not to let his disappointment show too heavily on his face, but Natasha picked up on it right away. 

When questioned all he could come up with was, "it's hard to think about Bucky being tied up in the boondocks somewhere."

Natasha's response was plainly, "we've only been searching for about an hour."

Steve was beginning to resent her unfailing capacity to be right. 

________________________________________________________________

 

Sam was out for the night, which meant that Steve could either listen to the St. Patrick's Day address (again) or join him in what inevitably would turn out to be a high-adrenaline night that promised distraction from the funk that Steve had gotten himself into since Thursday. Steve picked the obvious choice, which was to curl up with a book that he was too distracted to read as Truman droned mercilessly on yet again. 

And this was where Tony found him not two hours later. 

The older man let himself in, and Steve looked to his right at Tony dressed sharp in a suit with lapels, and a wide brimmed hat angled down towards his face (such was the style of a suave older gentlemen as himself). The dazzling smile Tony shot him was predictable, and the soft click of the latch behind the man was not lost on Steve who abandoned his book that he had really stop reading about ten minutes previous. 

"Hiya, dreamboat," Tony said, taking his time to walk around the couch, throwing his hand down onto a chair and already unbuttoning the one button on his striped suit. 

Steve decided he looked a little like a mafia member, which took his ability for arousal a little longer. 

Tony moved quickly now, which Steve knew he only did when the man was really begging for it, and closed the gap between the two of them, rough, styled beard on naked skin. Steve kissed Tony back, because it really was enjoyable, and as Tony stepped back to pull his suit jacket back and off of his shoulders, Steve stood so their lips didn't have to part. Steve heard Tony's jacket land over his own hat and he set to work on the buttons on Tony's shirt, popping them off one by one. 

Continuing to push him backwards, Steve took two more steps and, without breaking the kiss, turned Truman's iconic speech down and then off. Tony laughed and began to say something, but Steve found he was not in the mood and took the man's head between his hands and kissed him harder, any thought of a sentence eventually chased away by his own tongue. 

Steve only parted once between his living room and his bed to pull his thin t-shirt over his head, and waited a moment for Tony to do the same with his undershirt before Tony pulled his pants down to his knees and Steve's mouth was on his again. Steve got on his knees on his own ratty sheets (the unspoken formation that was the same every time, without hesitation) and took Tony all in his mouth, bobbing once up and then down experimentally. 

He ignored Tony's moans of desperation, so familiar to his ears that they seemed almost cliché. It was nice, at first, to have some feedback for his work, but as time continued on, Steve knew he did a good job and Tony's grating voice was really just a bit overdoing it. 

Instead, Steve allowed his mind to gravitate towards different things. He thought of the weather outside, at first, wondering if it was still that same city chill or if it was close enough to April to start getting warm showers of sporadic rain. Then, when this category was exhausted, he thought of the book he had been attempting to read, and wondered whether he had retained any information at all. He hadn't. 

Tony's hand fisted in his hair quickly, his breathing suddenly growing shallower, and Steve pulled off just to tease him and to punish him a little, too. 

Then Steve thought about Bucky. Not  _about Bucky_ like the way he does in the shower, or late at night when he can't sleep, but about the boy in general. His absence seemed sort of surreal as if he wasn't really gone but just one thin wall away. It was not like someone Steve had ever known to enter his life and leave as quickly as all that. Steve tried to convince himself that he believed that Bucky would come back. 

And then again, was Bucky really the missing link in this whole equation? Of course Steve was worried about him, that went without saying, but he only hardly just knew the guy. Sure he was...dreamy. But even so, Steve had his own sneaking suspicion that this whole charade was about something else, a little, too. 

Maybe it took Bucky getting lost for him to realize, or maybe it took Bucky  _showing up_ to make Steve realize just how claustrophobic his favorite city was getting. It seemed so big when he was just a kid, but as he grew, doubled, tripled in size, the city seemed to go the opposite way - shrinking in response. Steve did not like to think about this, because where else could he go? He lived the New York City life, he did that, and how to go you go up from there?

And yet all the boys, Bucky included, talked about "over there". Being shipped out and exploring these great magnificent, legendary new worlds, and witnessed them being torn to shreds. Germany, London,  _France_... Destroyed or not, they saw it all.  _  
_

Steve had seen the inside of a prison cell.

And so he thought about Bucky again. Strong, brave Bucky who had seen "over there" and lived to tell the tale. Suddenly gone without a trace or even a buzz to tell his friends that he was alright. And maybe Steve was feeling heroic or something, but if finding Bucky was going to be his one big act for America, then so be it. 

Steve didn't realize until about a minute after Tony groaned his name loudly, echoing into the empty apartment, that the boy had finished all of his own stomach. Steve pulled back, wiping off his chin with the back of his hand, and let Tony praise him, breathlessly. The second unspoken rule of conduct was that they would both cramp onto the tiny one man cot and Tony would sleep soundly and disappear in the morning. 

They went about business as usual, and just before the sound of Tony's light snoring pervaded his thoughts, Steve realized he had spent the entire blowjob thinking about Bucky.

**Author's Note:**

> HEY SO 2 THINGS I REALIZE THE SONG WASNT WRITTEN UNTIL THE 1960s SO THATS GREAT AND ALSO THERE WAS AN ERROR IN MY SUMMARY SO THATS ALSO GREAT pls dont judge me on either of those things just give me a chance


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